The Billionaire's Secret Ten Year Obsession

The silence in the Maybach was suffocating.

Seconds ticked by like hours. Brooke felt the sweat prickling at her hairline. Foster's intense, unblinking stare made her skin burn. She felt like she was sitting on a bomb waiting for it to detonate.

She dug her fingernails into her palms, forcing herself to hold his gaze.

"I will play the perfect Mrs. Pruitt," Brooke added, her voice tight. "I won't ask questions. I won't demand your time. And when you don't need me anymore, I'll walk away quietly."

Foster watched her chest rise and fall with her rapid breathing.

Deep inside his chest, the beast that had been starving for ten years let out a dark, satisfied purr. She was walking right into the cage and locking the door behind her.

He kept his face perfectly blank. He tapped his index finger against the leather armrest, a slow, rhythmic beat that sounded like a countdown.

Suddenly, his finger stopped.

The corner of his mouth curled into a sharp, lethal smile.

"Deal."

The single word hit Brooke like a physical shockwave. She blinked, her mouth falling open slightly. She had prepared a dozen arguments, expecting him to laugh in her face. She hadn't expected him to agree instantly.

Foster didn't give her a second to process it. He pushed the car door open and stepped out into the brightly lit garage.

He walked around the back of the Maybach and opened her door. He reached his hand out to her. His long, thick fingers were steady and demanding.

Brooke took a shaky breath. She slid her small, freezing hand into his massive palm.

His skin was burning hot. The moment their hands connected, a jolt of electricity shot up Brooke's arm, making her gasp softly. His fingers immediately curled around hers, locking her in a crushing, possessive grip.

He pulled her out of the car, adjusting his trench coat around her shoulders so it covered her completely. He led her toward a private, stainless-steel elevator.

Foster pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner and leaned in for the retinal scan. The heavy doors slid open silently.

The elevator shot upward at a dizzying speed, making Brooke's stomach drop.

When the doors opened, Brooke stepped into a world of cold, absolute luxury. The penthouse was massive, decorated entirely in stark black, white, and gray. There were no pictures, no plants, no signs of life. It looked like a high-end museum.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying, panoramic view of the city below.

Foster let go of her hand. He walked over to a sleek console and pressed a button, connecting to his assistant.

"Errol," Foster commanded into the speaker. "Get two sets of women's clothes delivered here immediately. Then, call Judge Miller. Tell him to expect us at his private estate in Bel Air. We are getting the paperwork signed tonight."

Brooke's head snapped up. "Tonight? Right now?"

Foster turned to face her. His tall frame blocked out the city lights behind him.

"The Pruitt family doesn't wait," Foster said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "When a decision is made, it is executed."

He pointed down the long, dark hallway. "Guest room is at the end. Go take a hot shower."

Brooke swallowed hard. The sheer force of his personality was overwhelming. She nodded numbly and walked down the hall.

The guest bathroom was a sanctuary of dark marble and glass, easily as spacious as the master suite in her own luxury apartment. She dropped the heavy trench coat onto the floor and stepped into the massive glass shower.

She stood under the scalding water, scrubbing the last traces of the disastrous wedding day from her skin. Her mind was spinning. She was actually going to marry Foster Pruitt.

When she stepped out and dried off, she realized a massive problem. Errol hadn't arrived with the clothes yet.

She opened the guest room closet. It was filled entirely with men's clothing. Crisp suits, dark ties, and rows of pristine white dress shirts.

Having no other choice, Brooke pulled a custom-tailored white dress shirt from a hanger and slipped it on.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem fell to her mid-thigh, barely covering her. She rolled the sleeves up past her elbows, leaving the top three buttons undone.

She towel-dried her hair and walked back out into the living room.

Foster was sitting on the dark gray sofa. He had changed into a fresh, perfectly tailored black suit. He was reading a file, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

He heard her bare feet on the hardwood floor and looked up.

His eyes locked onto her.

Brooke was wearing his shirt. The thin white cotton clung to her damp skin. Her long, bare legs were completely exposed, pale and smooth in the dim lighting.

Foster's breath hitched. A violent surge of pure, primal heat punched him in the gut.

He slammed the file shut. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, and his Adam's apple rolled heavily as he forced himself to look away from her legs.